So far

The festival pulsed around them—colors and bodies and sound.

They passed through the gates with the same reckless momentum that had gotten them out the door. A security guard barely glanced at their IDs before snapping on their wristbands. Inside, everything glowed.

LED strands swung between booths. The sky above was black, the air sweet with funnel cake and faintly metallic beer. Somewhere, a DJ was spinning something too bass-heavy to have lyrics, and a dozen different rhythms throbbed underfoot like currents crossing wires.

Tasha grabbed Emily’s hand and tugged her into the crowd.

“God, this is exactly what I needed,” she yelled over the music.

Emily smiled, though she didn’t answer. The bass thudded in her ribs. She felt the thin cotton of her tank stretch each time she moved, her braless breasts a constant friction—heat and brush and shift. It was stupid. It was too much. It was... fun.

They danced near a pop-up bar strung with plastic lanterns. Tasha ordered two drinks without asking what Emily wanted—something pink with a fruit wedge that tasted like a hangover in a glass.

“Loosen up,” Tasha said, clinking their cups together.

“I am loose,” Emily said, laughing. “I’m drinking neon.”

“Yeah, and looking edible.”

Emily blushed, not from modesty but from the way the words turned heads. Two guys nearby had caught that last part and now hovered closer.

They looked like they belonged here—sleeves of tattoos, sleeveless shirts, well-worn sneakers, and just enough sweat to glisten without being gross. One of them had dark curls pushed back from his forehead and a grin like he already knew what came next.

Tasha leaned in conspiratorially. “We’re sisters tonight.”

“What?” Emily snorted.

“Yep. Half-sisters. Dad’s a perv, married twice. You’re the classy one. I’m the bad one.”

“That’s believable,” Emily muttered, but the guys were already on them.

Introductions got lost in the noise. There were names—Cam? Dev? Something that sounded like trouble whispered in a bathroom.

The one with the curls took to Emily immediately. He didn’t stare; he looked. He asked where she got her tank top like he was asking for her number, and when he laughed, it wasn’t over her—it was at her jokes.

They danced. At first in a group, then two pairs.

Emily let the music carry her. Her hips loosened, her hair came down. Her skin slicked under the summer night and drink.

She caught Tasha and the other guy making out near a corndog cart. She looked away before she had to see how far it had gone.

“You okay?” the curly-haired one asked her.

“I’m fine,” she said. And then, because it felt good to say it: “Better than fine.”

He smiled again, that slow, knowing tilt of the mouth. “Wanna check out the rides?”

Emily glanced toward the edge of the grounds. The Ferris Wheel blinked in slow rhythm, its spokes like glowing veins.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s do that.”

He offered his hand. She took it.

Behind them, Tasha was laughing too hard at something her guy said. Her lipstick was smudged.

The crowd thinned as they walked toward the edge. Rides towered above them, shadows looming. The music dulled under the crackle of gravel and the hum of motors.

Emily didn’t look back.